


You are me...

by fabricdragon



Series: ABO shuffle [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Moriarty is Dead, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-01 00:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12144831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Moriarty died on the roof and left everything to Sebastian Moran- who is lost and adrift without the brilliant madman.  Then he encounters the unexpectedly still living Sherlock Holmes.This "chapter" could stand alone but is likely to be continued.Part of the A/B/O shuffle





	You are me...

Sebastian Moran had retired. Oh, his skills were still in high demand, but after working for Jim? Nothing else measured up, so he essentially quit. He had inherited houses all over the world and enough money to live like a king, so he simply spent time traveling from one house to the next. He supposed he enjoyed it… somewhat… but it all seemed flat.

He finally realized he needed to pull himself together when he ran out of suppressants in a country where they were hard to get. Going into Heat in a country where any Alpha that Bonded him could own him in all but name? He had to either put a bullet in his brain like Moriarty had, or pull himself together.

He found himself revisiting some old places, checking up personally on the network, and he honestly couldn’t say whether he was playing a form of Russian roulette or just chasing ghosts–maybe both. He was talking to one of Moriarty’s contacts in Serbia, idly considering shooting him, when the man mentioned an unusual prisoner.

“So? Shooting fish in a barrel isn’t sport.”

“He is interesting, this one. We have had him for almost two weeks of questioning and he has given us nothing but insults.”

“Fine… Fine…” Sebastian sighed and went along with him, idly wondering if he could kill them all… _Mostly Alphas, no subtlety. I probably could… Pathetic._

He was sitting in their interrogation room: it was cold, and dirty, and pathetic. Moriarty would have sneered, adjusted his cuffs, and huffily demanded to leave the peasants to their fun.

They dragged in some poor man: he was filthy, and covered with wounds, and he stank– _Infection too, although probably only my Omega nose could pick that up this soon_ –but he still gave off a smell of dominant Alpha. _Must be driving the Alpha interrogators mad that they hadn’t gotten him to smell submissive yet._

They hauled him over and chained him up. Sebastian watched as the jailor landed a whip crack across the prisoner. He stood up to go– _Boring and a waste. They wouldn’t break the man, not with him still smelling like that_ –when he heard the prisoner’s voice:

“Still taking it out on me that your wife cheats on you with a Beta?” _Even rough and pained, that voice was beautiful, commanding… and familiar._

Sebastian turned back. The whip had cracked again before he spoke, “Micha, pull his head up.” Sebastian kept his voice level and stayed well back in the dark.

“Hmm? Oh, he’s still pretty enough if you like that sort–but I wouldn’t trust him to suck your dick!” The commander laughed as Micha walked over and pulled his head up by his hair. The man with the whip reluctantly stood back, dragging the whip through the dirt on the floor.

He would have been unrecognizable from the bruises and the dirt except for the eyes: the eyes were unmistakable. _It was impossible, the man was dead… It must be a coincidence of features…_

Sebastian held a hand up and considered. Everyone froze: they couldn’t know how much of the network he had, or even if it was certain that Moriarty was dead, but they knew he had been his lieutenant when last he visited. Micha let go of his hair and stepped aside, but Sherlock– _and it had to be Sherlock_ –kept his head up, trying to see through dirty hair and the dark.

“I want him. You’re done with him now: you weren’t getting anything anyway,” Sebastian said firmly.

“I’m not done with him–” the interrogator was snarling; he didn’t want to let his victim go. Sebastian pulled a pistol and shot him between the eyes. He had a moment to think that the man’s position had been very close to the one Watson had been in behind Moriarty: he could have picked him off then, but orders were only to fire as a last resort.

“You are now.” Sebastian looked at the commander, “Train your people better.”

“O- Of course. How do you want him?”

“Clean him up… You have drugs?” Sebastian saw Sherlock straining to analyze, and he stepped further back into the dark. The commander nodded. “Clean him up–I won’t have him stinking or bleeding in my car–drug him to compliance, and bring him to me.”

*

Sherlock knew he should keep his mouth shut, but it was far too close to submitting to them, so he opened his mouth about the man’s wife. If he pissed him off enough there was always the chance that he’d kill him quickly out of anger…

He’d noticed they had an observer, but it hadn’t been important until the man spoke. _English. He spoke fluent Serbian, but the voice was unmistakably English._ They dragged his head up and he tried to see, but the man was well back in the dark.

_He could be MI6 and a rescue…_

_Ah, the problem of having pissed off his captors so very much: they didn’t want to give him up–but everyone else was deferring? Must be one hell of a dominant Alpha, then…_ and then a bullet hissed past his ear and the Alpha with the whip fell backwards; he felt a few spatters of blood hit him, and the wet sound when the man fell said “dead” as clearly as if it was written in front of him.

He struggled to keep his head up. _Whoever this Alpha was, he was a hell of a shot–although it was close range–and yet none of them made a move against him: in fact, the commander acted… frightened?_

 _Clean? That was a dream by now, but drugged? Well the pain was pretty bad, and if he was MI6 he couldn’t let them know…_ He was dragged away to the showers and given a shot. Rough clothing dragged over his wounds and his eyes kept closing… He was hauled outside– _cold, bright_ –and then, before he could get a look at the man, he was blindfolded.

 _Car… Different car… Plane?_ It all blurred. Then he was stripped of the rough clothing and something beautifully smooth was under him, and more drugs… strange hallucinations of people and places danced in front of him.

When he woke up, he found himself in an expensive room in a private home that had been reworked as an invalid room, complete with hospital bed. He was lying on rather extreme orthopedic padding and after a moment realized why: the wounds in his back had likely required extensive work. He had an IV and his arms were restrained.

Blessedly, he felt clean. _It’s difficult to really clean a bedridden patient properly, so they have some talented nursing staff…_ His fingers found a call button and he pressed it curiously.

A short while later the door opened– _they’d placed a screen outside the door to conceal any details: clever_ –and a man came in. He was of average height, had dark blonde hair, and carried himself with a faintly military edge. Sherlock closed his eyes against the homesickness and loneliness.

“Do I look that much like Watson? I never thought so,” said the English voice from the dark.

“No, not really, just… It’s been a long time.” Sherlock sighed in resignation. “You aren’t MI6, so I presume you used to work for Jim Moriarty.”

“No, and yes.” He shook his head and smiled faintly, “I was Moriarty’s Watson, I suppose, although I’d known him longer.”

“Were you?” Sherlock looked him over carefully but he was as difficult to read as Moriarty ever was: all he could tell was a sort of wistfulness and nostalgia–perhaps projections of his own–and a faint undercurrent of excitement. “You aren’t going to kill me: you wouldn’t bother with all this.”

“I considered it,” he said pleasantly as he sat in a chair and looked at him. “He would have thought you dying in that hellhole was beneath you, though. I suppose I could still do something showy. Fancy being found inexplicably dead somewhere dramatic?”

“Not really, and you aren’t planning on it.” Sherlock frowned, “Although I don’t know what you want: you don’t seem inclined to take revenge, somehow.”

“Revenge? Whatever for?”

“Moriarty’s death. Several of his other people seemed intent on it.”

“He killed himself–not your fault, he was going to anyway. I suppose I could blame your brother and you a bit, but really… it was inevitable…”

Sherlock tried to sit up further; the man came over and helped raise the bed before retreating to his chair. “You… Why? Why would he do that? I never understood…”

“I suppose you wouldn’t. He hated anyone knowing.” He shrugged. “He was an Omega.”

Sherlock gasped, “Impossible! I SPOKE with him: HE was Moriarty!”

The man frowned, “Of course he was… Oh.” He looked disgusted. “Don’t tell me you assume he couldn’t possibly be brilliant because he was an Omega, so someone had to be running him?”

Sherlock was a bit abashed to realize that was exactly what he had thought. “It’s… not likely for an Omega…”

“JIM wasn’t likely. Period.” The man bared his teeth. “But the only reason Omegas don’t typically hold positions of authority is because of attitudes like that.”

“I knew he wasn’t an Alpha…” Sherlock was reexamining all his prior contact with the man: _Could he have been an Omega?_ “Why would that explain his suicide?”

“He’d been on suppressants too long, and he was one of the unlucky ones with side effects.” The man’s façade broke: he looked depressed, lonely, and faintly lost.

“The most dangerous problem of long term suppressant use is blood clots…” said Sherlock.

The man nodded and his face settled into a grim determination. “He had a mini-stroke once already. His doctors told him it was either get off the suppressants, or…”

Sherlock gasped. _Death as a likely consequence, or brain damage as a possibility… My God…_ “With his mind? That’s… So he went off them?”

“Are you mad?” He stared at him and groaned, “No, of course not–just an Alpha. Tell me, detective, if people even got a hint that he was an Omega, what happens?”

Sherlock stared at him, and slowly the realization crept up. “No one would listen to him…” he whispered.

“And?”

“Alphas would try to Bond him… if for no other reason than to control him, and his network…”

“He swore he would never go off the suppressants,” he nodded. “One last bit of drama and a glorious end with the only person he ever considered his equal?” the man waved at him. “It was a given. I just don’t understand how you survived: I saw you fall.”

“It was a risk but… I didn’t want to die, and I couldn’t let my friends die.” Sherlock sagged back into the soft padding. “His body was missing–you took him?”

“I retrieved his body, and his legend is secured. No one will ever be able to prove anything about him, and he’ll be remembered: it’s what he wanted. Well, I don’t think he really cared if Mycroft found his body, but damned if I was letting that Alpha paw him over.” He laughed, “Funny thing? I was planning on burying his urn in your grave before I went off for my bit of drama.”

“I still don’t want to die,” Sherlock said cautiously. _The man’s words sounded like a murder-suicide in the works, but something about him said he wasn’t quite ready to die either._

“I had… wanted to.” He looked at him thoughtfully, “But the game, the hunt? God, it was great… Jim would come up with the crazy plans that required split second timing and fantastic shots…” _He looked… hungry, that was the word._ “I can maintain a lot of his holdings, but I can’t do what he did.”

“You miss it…” Sherlock whispered, remembering his brother’s words to John. _This man was dying for lack of it–I can see it now…_

“More than anything. I miss Jim, that brilliant crazy genius, but… he always said you were him.” He turned a look of near-desperate intensity on Sherlock. “There were always things he couldn’t do–curse of being born an Omega, I suppose–but he made up for it with his mind: no one could ever match him but you. You were him.”

“So he kept saying. He said that at the end, too.” Sherlock felt a very cold chill as he looked at those desperate eyes and the steady hands of the man who must have been behind the laser sights at the pool….

“Yes, yes he did,” he nodded, and something in his posture said he’d made his decision. “So welcome back to the land of the living… Mister Moriarty.”


End file.
